5. Cat
— ? —
Cat
The seamstress is still gathering her pins when Marcella dismisses her.
“That’s enough for today,” she says, not looking up from her phone. “I need to speak with Mrs. Moretti privately.”
The woman, Maria, I think, brought in specially for the christening gown fittings, hesitates, glancing at me.
I’m standing on a small platform in front of three mirrors, wearing a half-pinned cream dress that costs more than most people’s cars, and I have absolutely no say in whether she stays or goes.
“It’s fine,” I say, because what else can I say? “We can finish tomorrow.”
Maria nods, gathering her kit with the efficient movements of someone who’s learned not to ask questions in houses like this. The door clicks shut behind her, and the fitting room goes quiet.
Marcella sets down her phone.
“Finally,” she says. “I’ve been waiting weeks for a moment alone with you.”
“Lucky me. And here I thought you were just passionate about hemlines.”
“Oh, Caterina.” She rises from the velvet chaise, smoothing her white dress, always white, always virginal, like she’s auditioning for a role she thinks she deserves. “That wit of yours. It must be such a comfort, having something sharp when everything else in your life is so… soft.”
“Is there a point to this visit, or are you just here to critique my coping mechanisms?”
“The point is that I’ve been watching you for a year now.” She crosses to stand in front of me. “And I think it’s time we stopped pretending.”
“Pretending what?”
“That you belong here. That this marriage is real. That Max chose you for anything other than political convenience.”
“My position is donna.”
“Your position is placeholder.” She says it sweetly, like she’s offering fashion advice. “A warm body filling a seat until the treaty terms expire and Max can finally do what he should have done from the start.”
“Which is?”
“Marry someone he actually wants.” Her smile sharpens. “Someone who understands this world. Someone who didn’t need a peace treaty to get through the door.”
“Someone like you, I suppose?”
“Well.” She examines her manicure. “Since you mention it.”
“I’m not discussing my marriage with you, Marcella.”
“Why not? Max discusses it with me all the time.”
The words hit me square in the chest. I keep my face neutral, but something must show, because her smile widens.
“Oh, you didn’t know? I suppose he wouldn’t tell you.
It’s not like you two actually talk.” She circles me slowly, like a predator assessing prey.
“A year married, Caterina. A year, and nothing to show for it. No heir, no influence, no real place in this family. You were supposed to do one thing, produce the next generation, and you can’t even manage that. ”
“Get out.”
“Not yet. We’re just getting started.” She stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can smell her perfume, something expensive, probably French. “Do you remember what the treaty actually says? Not the pretty promises. The exit clauses.”
My stomach drops. “Those clauses require a hearing.”
“Three years minimum, yes. But there are exit clauses. Conditions under which the marriage can be dissolved early.” She tilts her head, studying me.
“Failure to produce an heir within two years, for instance. Conduct unbecoming of a donna. Evidence of divided loyalties. A hearing is only a room full of men, Caterina. Guess whose side they’ll take. ”
“How do you know about the private terms?”
“How do you think?” She laughs, and the sound is bright and cruel.
“Max told me. He tells me everything, Caterina. We have dinner together when he’s in Chicago.
We talk for hours about the family, the business, his frustrations with this farce of a marriage.
He calls me when he needs advice. He trusts me in ways he’ll never trust you. ”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I? Ask him yourself. Ask him who he calls when he can’t sleep at 2 a.m. Ask him who keeps him warm during those long Chicago trips.” She leans closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Who do you think he turns to when his wife is cold and distant and useless?”
I want to believe she’s lying. I want to dismiss this as jealousy, as desperation, as the ranting of a woman who can’t accept that she lost.
But I remember the meeting. I remember what he said.
I don’t know if I love her enough to keep her as my wife.
I can’t stand this much longer.
“He doesn’t love you,” Marcella says, and her voice is almost gentle now. “He’s never going to love you. You’re a line item in a peace treaty, nothing more. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for everyone.”
“Easier for you, you mean.”
“Yes, actually. But also for you.” She steps back, folding her arms. “I’m not heartless, Caterina. I’m offering you an out. Leave him. Walk away. Go back to your family, live your life, stop pretending you belong in a world that was never meant for you.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I make your life a living hell.” She says it plainly, without heat.
“Every social event becomes a minefield. Every conversation turns into a weapon. I have friends in this family, real friends, and I can make sure that every single one of them knows exactly how unwanted you are. You’ll never have a moment’s peace, not one, until you’re so miserable that leaving seems like mercy. ”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a schedule.” She smiles again, and this time it’s almost pitying.
“I’ve been patient, Caterina. I’ve been waiting for Max to come to his senses on his own.
But it’s been a year, and you’re still here, and I’m tired of waiting.
So here’s how this is going to go: you leave him, or I destroy you. Your choice.”
I should respond. I should have some devastating comeback, some show of strength that puts her in her place.
Instead, all I can think about is the private terms. The exit clauses. The fact that Max apparently discusses our marriage with her, confides in her, trusts her with private details of our marriage.
The proof that levels me isn’t the affair. I can’t even be sure there is one, not really. Marcella lies the way other people breathe, and she’d say anything to hurt me.
But they talk. That much rings true.
They’re close in a way we never were. In a way we stopped being the moment his father died and the ice set in.
“Nothing to say?” Marcella tilts her head, studying me. “I expected more fight from a Romano.”
“You expected wrong.”
“Apparently so.” She sighs, like I’ve disappointed her. “You know, I almost feel sorry for you. You actually fell for him, didn’t you? You thought that warm stretch before Aldo died was real.”
“Don’t.”
“It wasn’t, you know. He was performing. Playing the good husband while the treaty was new and everyone was watching. The moment the attention faded, so did he.” She shakes her head slowly. “You were always just a means to an end. The sooner you accept that-”
“I said don’t.”
“the sooner you can start building a life that actually belongs to you. One where you’re not constantly waiting for scraps of attention from a man who’s never going to give them.”
The worst part is, she might be right.
The warm months feel like a fever dream now. The chess games, the late-night conversations, the way he looked at me like I was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen, was any of it real? Or was I just fooling myself, reading depth into performance, love into obligation?
“Although,” Marcella says, and her tone shifts to something lighter, more casual, “even if he wanted to want you, you’re not exactly making it easy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just saying.” She gestures vaguely at my body. “You’ve put on weight. I noticed it at the last family dinner. Max definitely noticed. He kept looking at you with this expression, like he was trying to figure out what was different.”
My hand moves instinctively to my stomach. The dress has been feeling tighter lately, but I assumed it was stress eating, the late-night chocolate bars I’ve been hiding in my nightstand like a guilty secret.
“That can’t be helping his attraction,” Marcella continues sweetly. “Not that there was much to begin with. But still. If you’re going to fight for a man, you should at least try to look like someone worth fighting for.”
“You’re vile.”
“I’m telling you what everyone else is too polite to say.
” She picks up her phone from the chaise, tucking it into her designer bag.
“I’ve said what I came to say. Think about my offer.
Leave gracefully, and I’ll make sure the family treats you with respect on your way out.
Stay, and…” She shrugs. “Well. You’ve been warned. ”
She starts toward the door, then pauses, turning back.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“Stay away from Max during the christening. He’s going to be standing at that font as godfather, and I’m going to be standing beside him as godmother, and the last thing anyone needs is his sad little treaty wife making a scene.
” She smiles one last time, all teeth. “It’s really better for everyone if you just fade into the background.
You’re good at that by now, aren’t you?”
She moves toward the door, and something in me snaps.
“Marcella.”
She turns, eyebrows raised.
“Say what you want about my marriage. Say what you want about my weight, my position, my worth. But don’t ever think for a second that you know what I’m capable of.”
“Is that supposed to scare me?”
“It’s supposed to be a warning.” I step down from the platform, still in the half-pinned dress, and cross to stand in front of her. “I’m a Romano. My family didn’t survive thirty years of war by being weak.”
“Your family survived by making deals with mine.” She laughs. “You’re not a warrior, Caterina. You’re a bargaining chip.”
“Then you should know better than to underestimate bargaining chips. They have a way of becoming weapons when you’re not paying attention.”
Her eyebrows lift, surprise, maybe, or the beginning of respect. Then it vanishes, replaced by that cold, perfect smile.